The Parrots Read Online Free Page A

matter of doing some very simple exercises, for instance, interrupting the flow of urine.”
    “…”
    “When you feel the urge, go to the toilet and try to interrupt the flow suddenly… then start again… then interrupt it again, on and off, on and off… like a tap… Treat it like a game.”
    “…”
    “Another very useful exercise worth repeating is this.”
    The Urologist stood up, walked solemnly to the middle of the room and planted his feet firmly on the floor.
    “Back straight, legs open…”
    The professor threw his weight onto his thighs, bent his knees and slowly crouched, down, down, down, as if intending to shit on the carpet.
    “Then pull yourself up by contracting the perineum.”
    The Urologist got back into a standing position, although not without a certain effort. A bead of sweat glistened on his tanned forehead. Then he straightened his coat and sat down again.
    “Another exercise, which also involves contracting the perineum, is to contract it as much as possible and then…” The Urologist coughed twice, sharply. “Or else blow your nose. All these exercises involve the abdominal muscles. The important thing is to keep up the contraction. Is that clear?”
    “Almost. How do I contract the perineum?”
    “Clench your buttocks, damn it! Now we really should end there. Oh! Perhaps before you go you’d be so kind as to inscribe something… for my wife, you know, she has all your books.”
    The fact that she had all of them didn’t mean she’d read them, but The Master kept this thought to himself.
    The Urologist opened a drawer and took out a book still in its cellophane wrapper, which he proceeded to tear off without any embarrassment.
    The book, thought The Master, was like one of those whales that die choked by plastic bags. On the cover was an erotic scene, a detail from a Greek vase. It looked less like a book than a brochure for a guided tour of an Etruscan tomb. And then they complain my books don’t sell, thought The Master. Angrily, he grabbed the pen.
    “To?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “What’s your wife’s name?”
    “Oh, Sara. But, well, actually… it isn’t for my wife… Write ‘to Alessia’, or rather, no, ‘to Alessia’ sounds wrong, write ‘for Alessia’.”
    So now as well as teaching me how to pee, he also has to teach me how to write, thought The Master.
    Behind the trendy glasses, The Urologist’s eyes oozed self-satisfaction.
    The biro traced a nervous inscription on the title page. As he autographed the copy with a grimace, he was already trying to contract his perineum—or at least to clench his buttocks…
    “My secretary will give you an information leaflet summarizing the exercises, along with a measuring cup and a urination diary.”
    “A measuring cup? And what the hell is a urination diary?”
    “It’s a diary in which you note down the frequency with which you urinate, and the volume of urine you expel. It’s a very useful tool. Please keep it with you at all times and write everything down, symptoms, sensations and so on… Anyway,” said The Urologist, “don’t worry, you have in front of you… I won’t say a bright future, but at least a future. Which isn’t to be sniffed at.”
    He turned a dazzling smile on The Master and held out his hand. The Master shook it without vigour. As he left the consulting room, his steps made no noise on the carpet. It was as if hewere floating. Could a man without a prostate actually be lighter? How much did a prostate weigh?
    The Master’s questions remained unanswered. He paid the secretary for the consultation: two more like this and the advance from The Small Publishing Company would be gone. The secretary handed over the urination diary—a little notebook with a dark cover—and an anonymous-looking plastic measuring cup. Of the two things, he couldn’t have said which was the more demeaning. The secretary came to his aid.
    “Don’t worry, it comes in a bag,” she said, inserting the